


Welcome to the Bigs

by Bdonna, molo (esteefee)



Series: Big One [4]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, POV First Person, zine story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-13
Updated: 2006-10-12
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:10:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bdonna/pseuds/Bdonna, https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/molo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They finally make the Show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cover Art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork by the incredibly talented [Sonja](http://www.false-colors.net/indexx.html) (Bdonna).

  



	2. Welcome to the Bigs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Hutch's turn.

I'm sleeping with my partner.

Sometimes I still have trouble believing it, and when I wake up and find Starsky lying beside me, his warm thigh pressed against mine, or one strong arm thrown across my waist, I get the uneasy feeling that I'm deluded, or this is a dream, and that if I lean down to kiss him I'll jerk awake to an empty bed. Like I always used to before we began this... _thing_.

Usually I like to be precise with language, but 'thing' is pretty much all I can come up with, at this point. I don't know what else to call it.

Maybe I should ask Starsky.

That's a joke, of course. We don't talk about it. We just _do_ it. Like rabid weasels. Or maybe those chimps I read about in _Scientific American_. If it were possible to wear ourselves down to mere, tiny stubs, we would have done so, by now. But we don't _talk_ about it. Everything I've learned is from the touch of his hands, his mouth, his cock.

See, my partner doesn't like 'soapy scenes.' He made that clear to me one of the first times he almost died on me. I'll tell you: seeing him lying there on the hospital gurney with his face as white as paste, and _knowing_ that he was dying, that I might never see him again, alive, and not being allowed to _say_ anything was...difficult.

Not that Starsky didn't say plenty with his eyes, and with the tiniest lift of the corner of his mouth. But I couldn't, flat out, tell him how much he meant to me. And it hurt.

And that was long, long before we become...what we are now. This _thing._ And if I wasn't allowed to say, out loud, how I felt about him when he was dying, how can I tell him what he means to me now? I can only show him, and even then, when we're together, I'm conscious of how much I'm holding back. And afterward I have to rein it all in again, lock it up safe and secure. Until the next time.

It's hard enough just reining back my cock, which seems to be going through a second adolescence. And, of course, it doesn't help that he's constantly teasing me, either.

Just last week Starsky walked into the squad room waving a paper bag, this wicked gleam in his eyes (they are an incredibly pure, deep blue, did I mention?) and he looked so damned good I had to resist the urge to throw him onto the desk and...ravish him. He gave me a nod and offered me some Danish, which he knows I hate, so what he was really doing was saying he wanted to give me something sweet. Himself.

Then he raised those heavy brows of his, just to emphasize how very _long_ it would be before I would get to taste him. I swear he drives me nuts sometimes. He gets this quirk to his lip and blinks at me as if butter won't melt in his mouth (although God knows pretty much anything else will) and I'm lost. It's like he's specifically intending to make me miserable.

I guess that's one of the reasons I feel about him the way I do.

Weird, I know. I can't believe I spent twenty years of my adult, dating life trying to find the perfect woman only to discover she was a big, tough, hairy _guy_ with a smart mouth and the World's Most Perfect Ass.

Please don't misunderstand: I'm not complaining, even if sometimes it might sound like I am. But that's part of our game. I bitch, and it gives him something to work against, so when he finally gets his way, it's that much better. The only times we run into difficulties are when he thinks I'm just pissing and moaning, but I really _mean_ it. Like with his current obsession that we should 'do' it somewhere public, sometime.

I hate the idea. And it's not even fear of being caught with our pants down, although that could provide a whole new set of complications we're better off without. No, I hate it because it offends me to think of offering ourselves up for someone to denigrate or ridicule. But how can I explain to a guy who hates 'soapy scenes' that I consider what we do together too precious, too sacred to put on possible display? That it moves me so much I almost wish _he_ weren't even there to witness what it does to me?

And, of course, I've never asked him if it means the same thing to him. Scary thing is, even if I got up the balls to ask, what if he were to give me the wrong answer? There's no grand plan, here. We fell into this thing quite literally by accident. I'm not one to believe in Fate or the Gods, but if it weren't for that earthquake (March 27th, a nice 6.0. It wasn't the Big One, but we joke that for us, it was) I'm not sure we would ever have gotten together, this way. Even though I had wanted it forever, there was too much fear in me to approach him about it.

Starsky never seems to be afraid of anything. Except talking about it. About _us._

Anyway, in the squad room that day, he pulled a couple of tickets to a Dodgers game out of his pocket, and told me that this rookie pitcher he'd been keeping an eye on, Steve Howe, was going to be coming up from the minors. Supposedly this kid has an amazing arm, and Starsky wanted to see him play his first game in the Bigs. I told him I would go, of course, even though the game is on a Wednesday and it'll be our only day off that week. When I said 'yes,' Starsky got this huge, sappy grin on his face that made me regret my earlier decision (see above in re: desk, ravish).

Even if I didn't love baseball I would've agreed to go with him, just to see that look on his face. Hell, even when we're doing something I hate, I'm enjoying myself plenty just being with him. Like that night. We were on the couch watching something old and bad and creepy, Starsky's idea of a grade-A piece of celluloid (the octopus, I have to say, looked more frightened than the swimmer), when Starsky leaned over and started wrapping his arms around me, making weird noises. I pushed him off of me and told him an octopus doesn't sound like a wounded moose.

My poor moose gave me a hurt look, and I felt guilty, but shortly his tentacles were creeping over to my side of the couch again, so his ego must not have been _too_ severely damaged. I waited until he was just barely touching me before I jumped up and asked, "Want some popcorn?"

And, oh, the look he gave me. Dirty pool, making his stomach vie with his libido like that. But it wasn't just a tease. I know he thinks I'm a prude, but it just doesn't feel safe. Not with that little window he has in his front door so just anyone could walk up the steps and peek in on us.

And if we were to get caught out messing around, who knows what would happen? Not just to our jobs, but to _us_ —and by that, I mean this new 'us.' I can't give that up. Not ever. Not any part of what we share, now. It would kill me.

So I fed my little octomoose, and his hands were too busy to make trouble, and later, in the bedroom, I tried to make it up to him as best I could. He didn't complain—that's for damned sure.

We might have to put in some sound-proofing.

Here's how it went: I had him lying on his side and I was curled up behind him. I love taking him that way, because I can touch him so easily, and if I lean over I can still see some of his face, but he can't see mine. So I let myself go, pushing into him and listening to that sexy, deep voice of his babbling whenever I hit him deep and true. I fucked him for a long time, really slow and even, and played with his balls and stroked the very base of his cock, pushing it down to meet me. I felt like a machine designed to give him the maximum pleasure.

Each time I pushed in, he moaned, sounding like I was wounding him. And maybe I was, because I wouldn't give him relief, just kept going and going, as if he were music I couldn't stop hearing in my head. His thigh was hooked around mine and the musky, spicy smell of him, and the sounds he was making, were the perfect song. I let go of his cock and started rubbing the hair on his chest, tracing the naked lines of his scars until I reached his nipples, playing with one, then the other, still fucking, fucking him.

He started pleading, and grabbed my wrist hard, and pulled it down to his cock. I let him guide my fingers around him, and then we were both stroking him, faster and faster, until finally he came, yelling my name and squeezing me with his ass, his leg pulling me in deeper. It was perfect, making him come like that. I could live for it.

I let go of him and brought our joined hands up to his chest and started thrusting faster and faster into him, pushing myself higher. He turned his head back so I could kiss him once before my cock exploded and I lost control of my mouth, could only mutter and groan his name as I came into him. And that was a different kind of Heaven.

But I really shouldn't think about that while we're on the Job. He's looking at me now from across the desk, saying something about the Feddleton murder before getting up to go to the file cabinet and pull the case report. He bends over and I'm staring at that perfect ass, and suddenly I start getting an erection, which is rare for me at work. Usually I have more control than this. But lately, it's as if all the things I'm holding back are breaking free.

Shit. Think about something else.

Right: the case. We've got this tough one on our plates right now, not that the case will be that difficult to solve (the spoiled, rich son raises my hackles) but the players are all wealthy and keep screaming bloody murder whenever we pull them in for questioning. Dobey's hair is sticking up on end from all the times he's yanked at it in the last two days (calls from the Chief can do that to you).

As if on cue, the Captain's voice booms through his door, "Hutchinson! Starsky! Get in 'ere."

Starsky's shoulders give an automatic hunch and I make a face in sympathy as we file into Dobey's office.

"Do you know with regards to whom I just got off the phone with the Mayor?" Dobey asks dangerously.

 _Uh oh._ The Cap is being formal. I trade a glance with Starsky, and he takes the lead.

"No Cap. Regarding whom—"

" _Miss_ Constance Beauregard, is who," Dobey interrupts on a bellow. "Apparently she golfs once a week with the Mayor's wife. Did you happen to possess that small piece of information?" You could cut his sarcasm with a knife and spread it on toast.

Starsky's shoulders are up around his ears at this point, so I deflect the Captain's attention.

"No, sir, we did not know that—"

"Obviously _not_ ," Dobey says, and I think steam is about to start tootling out of his ears. "Considering I was just notified by the Mayor that you hauled Miss Beauregard from her afternoon mud bath to question her 'rigorously' about the Feddleton case."

"Yes, sir. See, we were told she might've been seeing—"

"Couldn't you have managed to let her _rinse off_ first before parading her past the spa clientele out to your vehicle?" I swear Dobey's eyebrows must have independent motors or something. They're moving all over the place as he dresses us down.

After the wind has stopped whistling through my hair, I cautiously offer, "Well, Captain, making the detainee uncomfortable or off-balance is an established interrogation technique." I say it absolutely straight-faced.

Unfortunately, Starsky chooses that exact moment to give the tiniest snort.

By the time the Captain finishes blistering our ears with his tirade about proper police procedure especially as it pertains to valued members of the community, both Starsky and I are completely slouched down in our seats. We wait until Dobey pauses for air (I swear he has the lung capacity of an Atlantic walrus) and then Starsky says, carefully, "We hear ya, Cap."

"Yes, sir, we read you loud and clear," I add sincerely.

Dobey looks like he's out of steam, so Starsky and I both get to our feet quickly and act like he's dismissed us. By the time he figures out he hasn't, I've already dragged my partner down to my car. I figure absence is the better part of valor, at this point.

We roll.

By six o'clock we've established that the snot-faced younger son was urged by Miss Beauregard to hasten the receipt of his inheritance, and we have both of them in lock-up. Miss B. is much the worse for wear.

On the way out the door at end of shift, Starsky starts laughing.

"I keep seeing that dried chunk of mud hanging from her hair as we walked her down Rodeo Drive," he says.

I smile at the memory of Ms. Beauregard's snippy little tirade. I know Starsky'll never know that the reason I insisted on hauling her out in such a bedraggled state was I didn't like the way she looked down her nose at him. He's uncomfortable around the wealthy, and she had picked up on that and was trying to use it.

"Her next salon appointment won't be for 15 to 20," he chuckles.

I grin at him. "I've heard prison soap is just _murder_ on your complexion."

Starsky laughs some more. I could listen to him laugh all day long, pretty much. Unfortunately, he thinks most of my jokes are too stupid for words.

We drove in separately today, because I woke up early to go to the gym, and as we approach our cars I realize we haven't yet made any plans for tonight. Normally, we would talk about it while he gave me a ride, or we'd even just go straight to The Pits. But by 'normally' I mean 'back before we started humping each other through the mattress most nights,' and so I always ask him now, very carefully, to make sure he doesn't think I'm assuming anything.

"You want to come over or something?" I ask, trying for casual and hoping I don't sound too incredibly eager.

He gives me a look of part exasperation, part something else I can't quite pin down.

"Yeah, that would be good _,_ " he says, "seeing as I have plans for that big cock of yours."

I can't help it, my head swivels around to see if anyone is within hearing range, and when I look back at him his exasperation has deepened.

"Meet me at my place," he says abruptly. So I know how it will go down tonight.

I walk off to my car, hoping he hasn't noticed how my nipples are suddenly stiff under my shirt.

~o~

Later, I wake up from a vivid dream. Starsky was inside me and I was looking up at him, at the muscles moving in his chest as he moved into me. Usually I get on my belly for that, it's almost too much for me when he takes me face-to-face, so deep. Like he did the first time.

But in my dream he's staring down at me and I don't recognize the look in his eyes, but just as I'm about to figure it out—

I wake up, so hard I'm about two seconds from coming.

Starsky is tangled next to me, and his hand is on my leg, about six inches from my cock. He's stroking my thigh achingly slow, up and down, up and down. I turn my head and look into his face. It has the same expression as in my dream, and my breath catches hard. Then he takes hold of my cock and strokes it tight; God his hand is unbelievable, and I'm so close to coming, so quick, my balls practically scream out loud when he suddenly stops and releases me.

His hand slips under my nuts, and I can hear myself panting, but he isn't making a sound; he hasn't said anything at all, and in the dim light I can see his eyes, still with that same odd expression.

I start to say something but at that moment his fingers find my asshole and slip right in.

It gives me a jolt. Part pleasure, part ache from the pounding he had given me earlier, me with my ass in the air and him moving so fast and hard behind me I thought I would slam into the headboard.

"You're still ready for me," he whispers, and I know he wants to fuck me again. He slips his fingers deeper and I can't help moaning a little.

But it's too soon, I still haven't recovered from the last time, haven't yet found the edges between us, or swung the gate, and I want to tell him 'no,' but his _fingers_ , God, they are so good, so knowing.

Finally I say, weakly, "Why don't we—"

"No." He pulls out his fingers abruptly and swings around between my legs, and I know that he wants me from the front this time, but I _can't_ , not now, not so soon. I nudge his shoulder and start to turn, but his hand is on my leg.

"Please, Hutch," he says.

I don't understand it. I don't understand _him,_ and that's God's truth, even though I know him better than I know _anyone_. But not this part of him.

I shut my eyes. It makes it easier when I feel his cock _there_ , pushing in so smooth. I'm sensitive from earlier, and it's like I can feel every slow inch, every vein in his cock, even though I know that's not possible. But, Jesus, it's so intense.

"Hutch..." he moans, and I open my eyes to see him staring down, just like in my dream, and my stomach tightens. The muscles of his arms and his chest are rippling and trembling, and I put my hands up to feel them, the hair like silk under my palms.

He groans again and pushes hard, bumping past my prostate, and my eyes close and I roll my head way back, lost in it. I could be dying from this, from feeling him inside me like this.

One day I might.

I start moaning, too, and he whispers, "That's it, baby blue, all for you." And I know he's watching my face, and what he's doing to me. I almost can't bear it.

He starts moving, nailing me in the same spot again and again, and he laughs softly, deep and dark, and I think, _Bastard. Oh, God, you bastard._

"That's right," he grunts, punishing me with his cock, "Give it up."

I'm close, so close to coming, and I want him to touch me, but he doesn't, just keeps thrusting into me, and I beg him with my eyes but he still won't, and then he looks down at my cock as he pumps in and out, and I realize he wants me to come without touching me, that he's _willing_ me to and, as if by command, I do. My balls clench and my cock starts spurting crazily like a fire hose under pressure and I'm yelling something, my throat raw, the pleasure so intense and yet strange, different, more all-encompassing than centered on my cock. I come all over myself, spattering his belly, too, and he reaches down and grabs my cock and strips the final spurts from me, and the pleasure suddenly focuses right _there_ and I feel myself jump, my ass clamping down on him.

"Jesus, God." I can't breath. He's still fucking me like a crazy man, my ass is really starting to feel it, so I purposely tighten hard around him again, saying, "Your cock. You're killing me with your cock." And it's too much for him, he throws his head back, and I watch the veins in his neck bulge as he plants himself painfully deep in me, and then comes. I love seeing him like this, so completely out of control, and I squeeze him again and he makes a sound of pleasure as he pumps his come inside me.

He slumps down next to me, gasping a little, and neither of us says anything—the silence that I'm used to—but his hands are on me again, touching me gently, and I kiss his temple, leaving my lips there a long time before pulling away, and it's enough, for now.

~o~

For once he's out of bed before I am, and I awake to hear him bounding around his kitchen singing some dopey song about bananas.

I crawl into the shower, hoping to make myself slightly human before I have to face him. I'm as sore as if I've taken a beating, which I have, of sorts. As I'm washing my ass I become particularly aware of it. My own touch practically makes me jump out of my skin. It reminds me of last night's late interlude, and the expression on his face. I can't shake the feeling I'm missing something important. I get cleaned up and dressed and meet him in the kitchen for breakfast.

"You gonna go home before the game, or what?" he asks me, and I look up from my eggs and toast to find him eyeing me.

We _have_ been together for more than twenty-four hours straight, at this point, so I don't know why his question should give me a small pang, but I nod.

"Yeah, I have to water the plants; check the mail," I say casually.

He looks away.

But my apartment seems empty, later, and I sit at my desk and try to pay my bills, but I can't seem to focus, so I pick up my guitar and play a little until it's time for him to come pick me up.

I think I might be pathetic.

Starsky is grinning to beat the band as he pulls us up into the giant parking lot at Dodger Stadium. It's a day game, and a Wednesday, so there aren't as many people as usual, but I feel like I always do—this sense of anticipation, of being part of something bigger.

I love baseball, especially when I'm watching close with the radio up to my ear, listening to the announcers give the play-by-play. They almost make it sound like chess, or strategic warfare. Every nuance of positioning and substitutions is vital. For example, a slight shift and a shorter right field for this batter, or a left-handed pitcher substitution because this other one just can't hit the southpaws. The base coach signals to the batter from first—secret gestures that are critical. Every detail is significant, and important. Any one of them can win or lose the game.

As we walk up to the gate I offer to chip in on the tickets, because I know they must be pricey. Starsky has been waiting for Howe to come up for a long time. I'm thinking Starsky probably paid for box seats, and I find myself hoping the kid doesn't let him down.

But Starsky just shakes his head 'no' to my offer and reaches into his back pocket for the tickets, which by now have now conformed to the curve of his ass. He hands them over and we almost get separated in the crush of spectators, but then he pulls me to the side and guides me away from the main pack. I'm surprised. He must've gotten _really_ good seats.

Only, he takes me to the elevator, and we go up, and up, to the top floor of the stadium. I turn to question him but he gives me this smile and warns me off. Okay, so this is his game, and we'll play it any way he wants.

He leads me to the entrance of the stands, and when we get out there I realize he has bought us tickets along the left field line. In the nosebleed section, no less. It makes no sense. You can hardly see anything from up here, and certainly there was no need for Starsky to bring his mitt, which he always does, religiously, as if someday he will actually get a chance to catch a foul ball.

I follow him to our seats and we sit down. He puts the mitt in his lap, and then reaches into his knapsack and pulls out some binoculars. I look at him in disbelief.

"You can't be serious," I finally say. "We're really watching the game from up here?"

"Yup." He turns his head and smiles, and there's that pure gleam of mischief in his eyes.

"Starsky."

He shakes his head as if I'm being incredibly dense (I usually am, when it comes to his tricks) and then he does an amazing thing.

He takes my hand.

I immediately take a quick look around, but there's nobody—and I mean _nobody_ —within a thousand feet of us. And I finally start to get it.

At first, I'm a little angry. After all, I made it clear to him that I don't _want_ to be physical anywhere outside the safety of our rooms. But it's true that there's no one around, no possibility of us being seen, unless it's by the Goodyear Blimp, so I don't say anything.

And, actually, I start to enjoy it. We're _outside_ , holding hands. Starsky and I. He raises my hand to his lips and kisses it, as if in reward, and he says, "Turn on your radio." He relinquishes his grip long enough for me to tune in to KABC, and Vin Scully's familiar voice comes piping through the speaker with the starting line-up.

"They might not even let the kid play, you know," I say to Starsky, hoping he won't be disappointed.

"They will," he says confidently, and re-possesses my hand, his thumb rubbing along the back.

It's ridiculous. I feel practically high, sitting in the sunshine with Starsky holding my hand. I look down, and he chooses that moment to switch so he can put his arm around my shoulder. It feels...real. That's the only way I can describe it.

The game starts. The Dodgers pick up two right away in the first inning, and then Rick Sutcliffe (not my favorite) starts pitching against the Astros. I get up and go to fetch Starsky some peanuts and popcorn and soda. The corridor is empty, and I have to walk a long way to find an open concession stand. When I come back I find Starsky has taken off his t-shirt.

I stand in shock for a second. I can't remember the last time Starsky has gone bare-chested in public. But you can bet it was some time before the shooting. It twists my heart a little, seeing it.

As soon as I sit back down his hand immediately rises to slide up my spine and run into the hair at the nape of my neck, playing there. It makes me shiver. He's the only one who does that to me. There's something so intimate about it, in spite of the fact he's not near any of the usual erogenous zones. But feeling those fingers of his rubbing gently and then combing through the hair over and over....

As I said, it gives me the shivers.

Starsky smiles at me, then drops his hand down to take mine and pull it into his lap, under his mitt. For a second, my palm is pressed to his crotch, but then I get too self-conscious, and I draw my hand away and stand, saying, "I'm gonna hit the can."

"I'll go along with," Starsky says, and his voice sounds a little strange. We walk down the steps and into the cool of the stadium corridor. The closest bathroom is a little ways, and our steps are echoing on the cement floor. The place feels deserted.

We go into the bathroom and we're barely inside when I feel hard hands on my ass, squeezing. I jump about two feet straight up, and a disbelieving laugh escapes me. "Hands off the merchandise," I say lightly, but he doesn't smile, just moves in closer, and I realize it wasn't just a joke.

I back up against the wall of the first stall. "What's going on with you, Starsk?" I'm a little distracted by the sight of his bare chest. And his arms. I've always had a thing for his forearms. I wish he'd wear more short-sleeved shirts.

He sees me eyeing him, I guess, because he walks toward me like a man with a mission, and there's that glint in his eyes again, and I suddenly feel like a chick in one of his horror movies. _The Octomoose From the Deep_.

I put up my hand, and he stops.

"What're you up to?" I ask him, and he smiles slightly.

"I'm up to no good at all, Blintz." He moves in closer to me, and takes my arm, sliding his hand down to grab mine. Then he puts it on his ass. He leans in close and he whispers, "Let's get it on."

Jesus. For a second I can't speak, I'm so dumbfounded, and then my blood starts to rise and I yank my hand away and press him back.

"Let me get this straight," I say, and there's so much anger in my voice that I'm maybe as surprised as Starsky, who takes another step backward.

"You want me to take what we do together, something that means so much—that's so important to me I can barely _stand_ it—and you want me to do it in a fucking _toilet_? Is _that_ what you're saying?"

I think I even spit a little.

And then I realize I've just let the cat out of the bag. But, the thing is, Starsky doesn't get mad. He doesn't even look surprised at what I let slip. In fact, he looks a little relieved, or even satisfied. And suddenly I see what's going on.

"You set me up," I say, "You set me up. My own partner."

Starsky doesn't even try to deny it. "I wanted to hear you say it," he says evenly. "You never talk about it."

But I notice he doesn't say anything in response. And I say, " _I'm_ not the one who doesn't want to talk about it. Or have you forgotten which of us is the one who hates 'soapy scenes'?"

He looks puzzled for a second, and then his forehead smoothes out. "Jesus, Hutch. That was _years_ ago—"

"You were _dying_!" And I try to yell it, but it just comes out in this harsh whisper. I try again, "You were dying and you wouldn't let me tell you how I felt about it. About _you._ Do you know how goddamn hard that was for me?"

I've never told him this, of course, but now it's all coming out, like a train wreck straight from my mouth. "I had to _leave_ , Starsk. I couldn't stay; not and find the answer. So I had to leave you just lying there...."

But now I have to stop. He's rubbing his face with his hand and I get this sinking feeling that I haven't just let the cat out of the bag, but the canary, too, and maybe a couple of snakes.

He sighs, and my gut clenches up. Then he says, really quietly, "I was trying to hold it together, that was all. I thought I'd lose it if we started talking about how we were feeling. I didn't think about...I'm sorry."

"I don't want you to be _sorry_ —"

"No, really, Hutch. I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd still remember that."

"It's kind of a hard thing to forget," I say.

But his mood is already changing, because next he says, "But, anyway, I think you're just blowing smoke. _You're_ the one who won't let me touch you unless we're all locked away in our bedrooms. _You're_ the one who keeps pushing me away, acting all casual, like you could give a goddamn whether we get together after work or not." Now he's sounding hurt.

I'm surprised. "I was...I was just trying not to crowd you," I explain. "It's not that I don't want to. I just-I don't know how to _do_ this Starsky. This...us. Jesus, I don't even know what to _call_ it."

That puts a small smile on his face for some reason. "Why do you have to call it anything?" he asks, and tilts his head with that way he has. That way that just slays me whenever I see it.

And I want so much to kiss him right then, but instead, I say, "It's not that I need to call us anything, but I need...I need to know—" I'm aghast at what I'm about to reveal, and suddenly my tongue freezes up like the propeller on the Queen Mary.

But there's Starsky, staring at me, waiting for it, and that pisses me off again, so I growl at him, "I need to hear you _say_ it for once."

And he doesn't ask, 'Say what?' which is pretty telling, not that we require a lot of words to explain ourselves to each other, usually. With a tiny bit of insight, I realize that's part of our problem. We rely so heavily on speaking through other channels, we've fallen out of any habit of actually articulating things to each other. But right now, I would give anything just to hear him say the words.

Starsky still hasn't said anything, and after a moment his eyes narrow. "Why don't _you_ say it," he asks, like we're a couple of kids daring each other to jump off the high-dive.

"Why don't _you_?" I snap right back at him.

"How come I have to go first?" he says.

"'Cause I asked you first," I say, and then I pretend to consider it. "Of course, if I say it first, I'll always get to say _I'm_ the one who did."

That does it. Starsky never could resist a direct challenge. His face gets that look—so familiar to me—like when we're about to break down the door and go charging in with our guns drawn. I hold my breath.

"Hutch." He swallows, and then he says it. "I-I love you."

I close my eyes for just a second, letting myself hear it. What he's never said to me, before, and something I've tried to say to him in the past, by sneaking it in with a joke about his taste in cars or in food, except now he's really _said_ it, without any 'buts.' I'm amazed at how deeply it moves me, to hear it. At how badly I needed to hear it, even though I already _knew_ he must.

Then I open my eyes and move toward him fast and start kissing him; first his mouth, and then all over his face, his cheeks, his eyes, which close under my lips, and I forget that we are in a public restroom at Dodger Stadium, where just anyone can walk in and find us in a clinch, and that we could lose our jobs, or worse, and that my very macho partner hates soapy scenes (I still think he does) because all I want in that moment is to take him and bend him over the sink and fuck him straight up that beautiful ass of his.

Straight up into his heart.

I've got my hands all over his bare back, now, and Starsky is clutching me, his grip tight on my shoulders, then he starts tugging me away from the sinks, into the far stall. He locks the door behind his back and I'm still kissing him, I can't get enough of his mouth moving against mine. It's like I can't breathe.

"Hey, hey," Starsky pulls away from me to whisper, but I can't stop, the train has jumped the tracks completely, and I reach between us and grab his cock through his cut-offs, and he groans.

"Need you," I say, completely desperate. " _Now_."

"Okay, okay," he says, and then he puts his hand in his pocket and digs out a crumpled, almost empty tube of lube.

It sets me back for a second, and I say, "You planned _this_ , too?"

"Just in case," he says, and his grin is wide, his lips all red and swollen from me sucking on them, and then I don't care, anymore, if this was all a big set-up or not, all I want is to feel him around me, hot and tight, and he must see it in my eyes because he turns and unsnaps his shorts, pushing back against me until my calves hit the toilet seat. Then he shucks his shorts down, exposing the smooth perfection of his ass, and he steps out of them, but he's having trouble getting 'em hung up on the hook because I'm already reaching for him, squeezing his cheeks and feeling them flex under my fingers.

He gets the shorts hung and then passes back the lube, and I grab it and open the tube hastily while I sit down on the toilet seat behind me so I can get at him easier. The two fleshy spheres are right in my face, and I lean forward and put my lips on his left cheek, sucking and biting at it.

He moans. Then I'm sliding my slick fingers between his cheeks and find his asshole and slip one finger inside of him, and he gasps and grabs the top of the stall door, hanging on. I move my finger in and out before I force another finger in there, deep; I'm a little rushed and he groans but a moment later he's thrusting his ass backward in appreciation.

It's too soon, but I can't wait any longer, so I pull out of him and stand and unzip to get my pants down just enough to lube my cock, which has been trying to crawl up out of my pants for the past five minutes. Jesus, I'm so hard it practically hurts to touch myself. But it's a good hurt.

Then I sit back down and unbutton my shirt to move it away, and I tug on his hips, guiding him down, down. I put one hand on my cock and hold it ready, waiting for his ass to come claim it.

And it does. God, he eases down onto me, his legs shaking with the effort, and as soon as I enter him, my cock...sweet Jesus, I swear it feels like it's being eaten alive by a hot, hungry mouth.

Starsky moans as he slides down my shaft, hitching himself up and down to sink deeper, wriggling on my hook like a game fish. I put my hands on his thighs just at the hips and feel the rock-hard muscles there straining. Then he eases down the final inches until he's sitting on my lap.

We both moan. I start kissing his back, running my lips over his spine, part of me wanting to stay like this forever. Sitting on the john. At Dodger Stadium. The thought makes me smile, but then Starsky's ass flexes around my cock and I can't take it, I have to have some movement or I'll lose my mind. I grab his hips hard and start rocking him forward and then back. Starsky braces his hands on the walls and helps, fucking my cock, over and over, and he's constricting around me every time I go deep, a small, muscular tug on my shaft, again and again. It's killing me.

And just then, there's the sound of footsteps approaching. I freeze.

"Shit," I hear Starsky whisper, and then he pushes back. I barely have time to get my arms around him to hold him steady before he rocks all the way back and lifts his feet to wedge them against the stall door, hiding them from sight.

The move puts me so deep inside him I think I'm going to come right then, and I have to clench my teeth and press my lips together against a groan.

I can feel his ass still quivering around me, and suddenly the danger of our situation—Starsky with his legs up, my cock buried in his ass while someone pees in the urinal close by—is too much, and I close my teeth on Starsky's shoulder, biting at him, and I slide my right hand down and start pumping his cock like I know he loves it, pulling the skin of his shaft up and over the head and then down again, covering him with my whole hand, and he tenses and shakes as I jerk his cock faster and faster, and he makes this almost soundless sigh.

"Ahhhhhh." He's so quiet I barely hear him. And then he's coming in my hand and on his own belly and I milk him slow, getting it all, lost in the feeling of his muscles clenching as he comes.

I hear a flush, and then departing footsteps, and then Starsky whispers, "You bastard."

But my cock is about to blow from the stimulation, so as he drops his legs I clutch him tight around the waist and rock us both to our feet.

Starsky grunts in surprise and grabs the top of the stall for balance; and a good thing, too, because he needs the support as I start fucking up into him fast and hard, just ten short strokes and then I'm coming, too, an intense explosion of pleasure hitting me in the balls and cock, and I hold my breath to keep from shouting as I tremble and ejaculate so hard my brain short circuits, and I empty myself into him.

"God," I gasp when it's over, and I feel him shaking so I tighten my arms around him again, and I nuzzle his ear and finally I whisper, "I _love_ you. So, _so_ much."

We stand there for a moment, not moving, then Starsky's hands drop to my arms and he pets me lightly before he pulls away and I slip out of him. Then he turns and puts his hands on my shoulders and smiles up at me.

"Welcome to the Bigs," he says.

~o~

Funny thing—after that day at the ballpark, I start having a lot of trouble keeping my hands off of Starsky in public.

Part of it, I think, is I unconsciously want to give him what he seems to need: some sort of validation that what we are is real; that we belong out in the daylight, just like anyone else.

Part of it, of course, is he's just so goddamn nice to touch.

And lately, I've whispered those words to him a couple of times, and he's done the same, although with him it's usually sort of a drive-by. Like I'll be standing there, just watering my plants, when out of nowhere this hand will appear on my shoulder and he'll lean in and the words will hit my ear. Then he's gone again.

But I'm not sure how much closer we are to figuring it out this... _thing_. The next time I brought it up, Starsky said, "It's like you said. We're _us."_

That seems to be enough for him. And maybe I don't know what it means, exactly, but I sure do like the sound of it.

Oh, and if you were curious about the game, Steve Howe did get his chance to play that day. He got an RBI single and then promptly stole second base. I think he might be on his way to being named Rookie of the Year.

Welcome to the Bigs, kid.

 _Finis._

July 2005  
San Francisco, CA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve Howe was indeed named NL Rookie of the Year for the 1980 season.
> 
> Some artistic license applied in this story, since Howe's first game in the Big Show was played on a Saturday, at the Astrodome in Houston. But we all know how Starsky hates to fly.


End file.
